The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here.

The dotted line my father's ashplant made On Sandymount Strand Is something else the tide won't wash away.

Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.

As writers and readers, as sinners and citizens, our realism and our aesthetic sense make us wary of crediting the positive note.

A writer is not different from a reader, in that the common ragbag of orthodoxies and assumptions is what a poet has to work with as well.

All I know is a door into the dark

You had to come back to learn how to lose yourself, to be pilot and stray-witch, Hansel and Gretel in one.